


Battle Wounds

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, John is a knight, Lestrade only in passing, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Smut, Sherlock is a king, Things work out this way, don't hate me, i wrote this at 4 am, okay???, sorry readers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A medieval era Johnlock. </p><p>A pawn<br/>A king<br/>And his beloved</p><p>Who will win this war?<br/>And who will come out, scarred?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle Wounds

The pawn.   
The King.  
His beloved husband.

One would be sacrificed, thrown away without thought. Another would be kept locked away-- safe, and unknowing, while another ran in the army without knowledge. And another would sneak away. Rise up the ranks and charge through the battlefield. Skill is an amazing thing, you see. As are the weapons held high above your head, or hidden deep within your mind. 

 

The clatter and clash of swords was familiar to the knight John Watson’s ears. ‘To travel,’ he had told his love. ‘Across the world-- to India, France, Portugal. I need to see all of the ports of the world. Learn as much as I can, and hand away that knowledge to our people. Do you not see? I need to be abroad. Traveling with my sister-- even as a drunkard-- we could discover a way to end this carnage.’  
‘...I do not see why traveling alone would be necessary for this,’ Sherlock had replied, a deep baritone that was sure to send shivers down John’s spine. Intentional or not, John’s own will was wavering from that far-too-low voice. He loved his husband; but he loved the sense of purpose. And his king could never provide for those needs when he was trapped within a castle.  
‘I promise you, darling. I will be safe out there in the big, wide world and I will be sure to return to you. My Love.’

The stench of a metallic copper coated his senses; his hands; his soul. A finely tuned medic and knight-- time after time, the doctor would place himself in these situations.   
A man of tall stature. Light blonde hair, a scar that ran down his eye. Jagged. Treated himself, John could tell. A sword of dark, heavy iron was brought down upon his own. He had named his sword after his heart, and all that would take it. ‘Corvi.’ Translated from Latin to English, and it would read ‘The Raven’s.’ Even if Sherlock would never approve of his actions, he knew that the small poetic motion would be greatly appreciated. For, John Watson was fairly certain that he would not be returning home. His sword would be handed to his husband, ruler of the kingdom.   
He would have to spend his final words reassuring Lestrade. He would be knighted by Sherlock’s brother, John was sure. Sherlock would remove himself from his place on the throne. It saddened John to think about-- he could hardly even fathom the idea. But, he would not be there to keep him from making the rash decision.   
He would not be there.  
The sword: thick and hot and heavy and burning, tore through the flesh of John’s left shoulder. He felt muscle rip; sinew tear; bones shatter from the pure force of the iron.   
He would not be there.

But he would not give up without a fight. 

Shuddering, the sword was pulled from his arm with a sickening the sickening squelch of blood. Crimson fluid, thick and sticky, leaked through the leather and chain-mail armor. It flowed from the wound at an impossible rate. It left hot and angry trails in its wake, blossoming in bright designs of the cotton undershirt. John screamed in pain as it was yanked from his flesh. Bones cracked as he collapsed back to the ground, momentarily lifted by the clenched muscles holding the sword in place. No matter the strength of those muscles, he was forced to slide off the sword, collapsing on the ground in a heap.   
He quickly recovered, swinging his sword over his face to block the oncoming hit. As iron-on-steel clashed, sparks flew, showering upon the far smaller figure crippled on the ground. The man’s sword bounced back. It gave John the perfect opportunity to strike. Instead of waiting until the recoil was finished (as was safest, and the least painful), John leapt to his feet. Dizzying, blood dripped onto the sand below. He stabbed Corvi into the heart of the man. Down, down, down the knight spiraled. Just as the man fell. Just as John fell. Just as crimson dropped ‘drip, drip, drip’ onto the sand below.   
He would later discover that man’s name was Sebastian Moran. 

He held no sympathy. 

Upon awakening, his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Sunlight, he assumed. Although, through the pained groans, there was not much room for inferences. His blue-grey eyes took many moments to adjust to the lights. The room faded in and out of vision, just as the lights seemed to sway above his head.  
Colorful patterns starbursted across the ceiling, forming beautiful patterns that seemed all too familiar. He slowly began to realize as his mind de-fogged, that It was not part of the tile-- no, no. It was from a stained glass window. A stained glass window, that he knew all too well.  
John sat bolt upright in bed. Almost immediately, a soft moan of pain escaped his chapped and dry lips. His back and leg ached, not to mention the stabbing pains that traveled up and down his shoulder. Upon further inspection (as in, a glance down), John discovered that his wound was bandaged and set in a sling. The bones had been re-positioned into a healing position, and the gash itself had been sterilized. But who in the army-?  
His question wasn't left hanging for long. Sherlock stepped into the room, icy eyes searching, disappointed, and concerned all at once. John had never felt more safe, but more uncomfortable, all in one moment. He let out another quiet groan and turned his head to the side, avoiding the glare.   
“Well?” the deep baritone of his husband questioned. John didn't know how to respond.  
Several tense moments passed, before John finally spoke. “I… am sorry.”  
It seemed that the response had sparked a response in his lover. “Sorry?!” he exclaimed, jumping out of the doorway. His lean legs took long strides. John studied the fabric from his position. Head bowed, gaze lowered, his stance was the only thing he really could study. He wasn’t going to look into his husband’s eyes. He couldn’t look into them-- icy blue-grey-grey, tinged with a redness the knight knew was from lack of sleep. Crying. God, it sent physical pains of guilt down through his abdomen.   
“John,” the voice was sharp; clear-cut. John had to look up. He had to. But, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to. It was too painful.  
He didn’t have much of a choice. Sherlock ran his fingers along John’s bruised cheek, under his jaw. He gently gripped the flesh, tilting up his chin in order to lock gazes. Sherlock’s eyes were a bit red, yes. But, what shocked him the most-- what sent him reeling-- was the amount of passion in his eyes. Burning, flaming. Lusting for everything he could get. John could not recover himself, and sure enough, Sherlock’s hand was placed on the small of his back. A steadying touch. Grounding. Sherlock knew of John’s needs. And John knew of Sherlock’s.  
“John…”   
Those eyes. He couldn’t pull himself away.   
“I can’t let you leave. You nearly died. I would have never forgiven myself,”  
No. He couldn’t have blamed himself. It was John’s fault. Sherlock would have to blame it on John. All John.   
“John… do you understand what you did?”  
A nod.  
“Please, love… I don’t want you to die. I need you. I need you more than I need myself. And the moment you’re gone, I’m following after. Do you understand?’  
Tears began to well in John’s eyes. He nodded again.   
“I love you. Don’t leave me.”

 

Don’t leave me…

 

 

Goodbye, John.

NO!


End file.
